


You can plan on me.

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5378840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma and Killian are ER doctors that volunteer for the holiday shift, spending it with shared cocoa and pumpkin pie. They’re also fuck buddies, and that’s enough for Emma. Until it’s not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can plan on me.

A stack of clean washcloths tumbles off the shelf behind her when she reaches up to get a better grip, her knee sliding up against his waist and her heel digging into the small of his back. The nurses aren’t going to be pleased when they haphazardly try to restack the clump on the floor, but she’s got bigger things to worry about.

Like the way Killian is steadfastly working a mark just below her collarbone with his teeth – just below where the hem of her scrubs falls against her chest. He’s always careful not to mark her where anyone else can see and she’s grateful for it, even if she does really enjoy it when he drags his teeth along the length of her throat to just beneath her ear, sucking there lightly until she’s just shy of a bruise.

(Once, he had been particularly needy, pushing her into the supply closet and bending her over the small table in the corner, wrenching her scrubs down with shaking hands and worrying the same spot with lips and tongue and teeth. He had whispered  _I need you_  into the mark he left, but she didn’t mind it much. Not when his fingers were on her clit and he was hard against her back.)

Their shift technically doesn’t start for another twenty-five minutes so she doesn’t feel her usual pang of guilt when his hand burns a path down her side to the drawstring of her pants, hooking there and tugging once.

“Do you want to – “ he mumbles against her lips, thumb brushing back and forth on the soft skin just beneath her bellybutton.

She lets her leg slip from around his waist. “Yeah,” she sighs, dropping her head back against the shelf when he slips two fingers down to where she’s wet and aching, stroking lightly, sliding his hand down further when she bites back a moan until his palm can grind against her clit while his fingers slip inside and curl just right. Her knees buckle. “Yeah, I want to.”

He chuckles, his exhale hot against her neck. “Tis the season for giving, after all.”

They end up being twenty minutes late for their shift, her fingers reworking the braid over her shoulder as he does his best to smooth his hair down into something not resembling “fucking in a closet chaos”. He smiles at her as his hand lingers just behind his left ear, chin ducked down and blue eyes peering up at her through his lashes, and she has to tell herself not to sway closer in his space.

They’re been doctors in the same Emergency Room for four years – fuck buddies for two – and it’s not that she doesn’t ever think about  _more_ , it’s just –

This is nice, what they have. Secret smiles and his teeth against her breast and his fingers bruising her hip. This is all she needs.  _More_  always inevitably leads to a letdown and she can’t risk it. Not with a co-worker.

Not with Killian.

(Even if she sometimes wonders what sort of coffee creamer he keeps in his fridge and what his eyes look like just as he’s waking up and what it might feel like to not hold back – for _once_.)

(Even if he sometimes invitees her to join him at the diner he goes to after night shifts, his smile struggling not to dip when she shakes her head and says no – no, she’s got some things she needs to attend to and it’s just – it’s really late and –

He always nods and smiles and pretends like it doesn’t hurt him.)

“Did you bring the pie?” She asks, the both of them making their way to the break room. It’s a tradition, sort of, the two of them and Christmas Eve. They’re always the ones on staff to volunteer for the holiday hours – neither of them having any family to spend it with. And  _that_ gets her, too – that she doesn’t have to explain why she needs to keep herself busy while the rest of the world sits around a fireplace spinning tales or carving a duck or whatever other ridiculous traditions there are. She doesn’t have to explain it to him, because he already knows. He feels that gaping hole, too.

It’s gone unspoken over the years, but he brings the pie and she brings the cocoa and they sit together in the small breakroom, watching Die Hard on the janky TV tucked in the corner that still takes VHS tapes.  

_Making new traditions_ , he had said their first holiday shift together, hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

Now though, he rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Aye, love. I brought the pie.”

“Is it home made?” He huffs under his breath and she presses her fingertips to her lips to tuck away her smile. “You cheated last year, don’t think I didn’t notice.”

He side-eyes her as he holds open the door, doing his best to bite back his own grin. The dimples in his cheek flash and it’s almost as devastating as that smile he gave her just as they left the storage closet. “I’ve only heard about it every day since, love. How could I possibly forget?”

“Just want to be sure.”

“You know I went three towns over to a non-chain bakery for that pie. How did you even notice?”

“The crust you make is all flaky,” she grabs two Styrofoam cups from the neat stack by the fridge and the thermos she stashed in one of the upper cabinets earlier. Leroy has a habit of pilfering things that don’t belong to him and she has no desire to eat pumpkin pie without cocoa. She sets the cups down on the table, kicking out a chair, freezing when she sees Killian staring at her from the fridge. “What?”

He shrugs, shaking his head slightly, reaching in for the pie tin. “Didn’t know you paid such attention to my crust, love.”

He says  _crust_  like he means something else, eyebrow jumping up and his tongue gliding along his bottom lip. She’s reminded of the way he bit down on it in the closet, twin indentations left behind a moment later when he let out a muffled groan, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones as he moved deep within her.

She blinks.

“You have a nice crust,” she mutters.

He grins. “I’m glad you finally noticed, love.” He slides the pie on the table in front of her, already precut – a stupid little cream cheese flower right in the center.

“Shall we?”

-/-

His crust is really,  _really_  good.

-/-

They’re just getting to  _“Where are the detonators?!”_  when both beepers go buzzing across the tabletop, almost taking out the abandoned (and likely empty) can of whipped cream. Killian sighs, stretching his arms above his head as she tries not to leer at the inch of pale skin exposed as his scrub top rides up.

He notices, because of course he does. But he lets it go, settling for a vaguely suggestive quirk of his eyebrow instead. “I suppose duty calls.”

“Yeah,” she pockets her beeper and stands herself. “Let’s just hope it’s not Will in a drunken stupor again. Last Thursday was bad enough.”

It’s not Will.

It’s a little girl with chestnut hair, her legs folded beneath her in the too-big hospital bed. She looks impossibly small wrapped in a hospital gown that drowns her tiny frame, and when Emma notices Granny Lucas tucked in the corner, her stomach twists.

It’s been a long time since she was a kid in the Lucas Family Group Home, the girl who kept to herself in the drafty room up in the attic. The girl who never had anyone come for her. The girl who aged out of the system but Granny let stay on for a couple months anyway.  

She breathes in deep through her nose. Out just as steady.

Old wounds and all that.

“Said she was having stomach pains,” the woman grunts, pressing the back of her hand against the little girl’s forehead. “She doesn’t have a fever, but I wanted to be sure. I worry about appendicitis.”

“You worry about everything,” Emma sighs before she can help herself, remembering just how often Granny had set her down at the old rickety kitchen table, a stern set to her mouth as she lectured Emma on not running so fast after the other kids.

Granny smiles, a fondness in her eyes at the outburst. “Worked out well for you, didn’t it?”

She can feel Killian’s gaze on her but she looks at the chart in her hand instead, giving a non-committal grunt as an answer.

“Aye, well, I’m glad you brought Fair Cecilia in,” Killian manages as he turns his attention back to their patient, a bright blue wink to the little girl making her smile, eyes darting back down to look at her knees. “What is it that’s bothering you?”

“My stomach,” the little girl mumbles, hands pressed to her abdomen. Killian nods and holds his hands out in front of him, making sure she’s not startled.

“May I?”

Cecilia nods shyly as Emma checks the history on the chart and Granny excuses herself to get some coffee from the vending machine just down the hall. Killian’s brows knit together after some careful poking and prodding and he steps back to Emma’s side, looking over her shoulder at the chart.

“Doesn’t seem like appendicitis to me.”

Emma nods, in agreement. “Maybe food poisoning? But she hasn’t been throwing up or – “

“Please don’t tell Granny Lucas,” Cecilia states quietly, both their heads swiveling to regard her in the bed. Emma frowns and Killian steps forward, carefully perching on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t tell Granny what, little love?”

Cecilia blinks, big brown eyes filling with tears, her little hands twisting in the material of her blanket. “I just – I just wanted Santa to be able to find me.”

A tightness seizes in Emma’s chest – memories of pressing her palms to the cold glass of the window in her room and staring out at the stars in the sky, keeping her eyes open until everything blurred together, trying to find a red nose in the sky.

Waking up in the morning and not finding any presents under the tree with her name on them. Not finding anything at all.

“ – and this year, I thought if I was away from all the other kids, he might be able to find me better.”

She puts the chart back on the end of the bed without really seeing it, breath coming short. She thinks she excuses herself, but it’s all a muddled mess in her mind – her feet leading her straight back to the supply closet. She doesn’t bother turning on the light, just presses her forehead to the wall and counts her breaths – in and out – concrete wall rough beneath her palms.

(Cold like the windows in her room, small fingers tracing shapes of eight reindeer and a sleigh, riding through the night sky.)

It’s been years since she was in that group home – years since she was completely alone on Christmas and didn’t receive a damn thing from anyone. Now she has David and Mary Margaret and the tacky ornaments they get her every year. She has Elsa and Ruby and the frankly inappropriate gifts she keeps in a box on the top shelf of her closet. She has Killian and his pumpkin pie.

She’s better now. Stronger.

But it still feels like she’s being ripped apart.

The door opens behind her, bringing with it the light from the hallway, and she hastily wipes the backs of her hands against her cheeks, dashing the tears away.

“Swan, are you – “ He stops abruptly when she sniffles, her back turned to him, shoulders hunched as she – as she just  _tries_  to get it together. The light from the hallway disappears and she fixes her gaze on a neat row of hand sanitizer instead of the way her heart is beating madly in her chest.

“Emma,” he sighs and it’s not pity in his voice – no, not at all. It’s understanding, and she blinks back fresh tears.

“I’m okay,” she chokes out. “I’m just – “ She bites on the inside of her cheek to stop the sob and it’s so ridiculous – she is so ridiculous. She doesn’t want to be having this conversation with him right now, like this. She doesn’t want to be having this conversation  _ever_.

But she doesn’t want him to leave either.

She’s not sure how to feel about that.

His hands find her waist after a moment’s hesitation, his chin pressed to the top of her head as he steps closer, his chest to her back. “Shh, it’s alright, love. We can just take a moment.”

His thumbs rub in soothing circles just above her hipbones and she lets herself lean back into him.

She’s never allowed herself this before. With him, or with anyone really. She’s never allowed herself to seek comfort in the arms of someone else because there was always a damn good chance that person could leave. They could leave and she would be worse off than when she started.

He presses a kiss to the back of her neck, to her temple.

“I was in the same group home – the, uh – the one Granny manages,” she swallows around the edges of her words, wondering idly where on earth they’re coming from. “I was placed there after the Swan’s – the family who was supposed to adopt me – they returned me. Got pregnant and had a baby of their own on the way.” He shifts behind her, thumbs digging into her skin before he catches himself and releases.

“All I wanted for Christmas was that little toy Hess truck. Do you remember those? They sold them at the gas stations, for god’s sake. But I saw the commercial one night when the Swan’s let me stay up extra late, and I don’t know, I let myself hope for one, I guess.” She wipes her fingertips under her eyes, pressing hard until she sees spots. “They returned me a week before Christmas and I thought they might come back. I thought it was all some big surprise for the holiday, or something. I don’t know, kids make up excuses I guess.”

He nods, chin rubbing against the top of her head, beard catching. “Aye.”

“But I woke up on Christmas – “

“ – and no toy truck,” he finishes quietly. He sighs out – heavy and labored – palm smoothing up and down her side. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

She allows herself another moment in the comfort of his embrace, the charms of the necklace he always wears digging into her shoulder, the smell of pumpkin pie and chocolate on his breath. She allows herself only a moment and then straightens her shoulders, wipes under her eyes one last time, and takes a deep breath.

“But that was a very long time ago. I guess I get sentimental around the holidays,” she forces a smile, turning but not quite meeting his gaze. She focuses on his shoes instead – the hole that’s almost, not quite worn in to his Chucks. “I’ll, uh, see you out there?”

He nods, feet shuffling in the (limited) space between them. “Sounds grand, Swan.”

He lets her leave – doesn’t press, doesn’t comment – and she’s grateful for it.

-/-

Killian admits Cecilia for overnight observation, the little girl’s face lighting up at the news.

She has to press her nails into her forearm to keep the tears back this time.

-/-

She buries herself in work, eats two more slices of pie than she usually does, and loses herself in Bruce Willis walking across broken glass instead of acknowledging their shared moment in the storage room. The one where she cried, not when she came, though she doesn’t acknowledge that one either.

She can feel his gaze on her though – heavy and considering – eyes sparkling when she laughs her way through the fight sequence and Alan Rickman’s American accent.

She takes the second shift of rounds while he disappears to catch up on his paperwork, spending some time with their sole patient – her legs balanced on the edge of the bed as they watch  _Santa Clause Is Coming To Town_.

It hurts less than she thought it would, seeing Cecilia smile and mouth along the words to the songs she knows by heart.

In fact, she almost feels better for it.

-/-

The pie tin is empty, her thermos too, and he hesitates by the door with his bag as she finishes up the last of their paperwork. Ruby and Victor have already arrived to relieve them, but she doesn’t want this to wait until their next shift. Paperwork has a tendency to accumulate if she doesn’t just sit down and do it.

“You’re sure you’re alright with the rest of that, love?”

She smiles around a yawn. “Yeah, yeah,” she waves him off. “Consider it my Christmas gift to you.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, not the slightest bit of innuendo in his words. Instead he smiles softly at her, still being as gentle with her as he was in the closet, palms pressed to her sides and his breathing helping to ease her own. “Listen, I – “ He stops, scratches behind his ear, looks down at the floor. He seems to suddenly change his mind about whatever it was he was going to say, giving her a tight grin instead that hardly reaches his eyes. “Happy Christmas, Swan.”

She smiles back, an echo of his own. “You too, Killian.”

He turns on his heel after another nod and uncomfortable smile and she listens to the squeak of his shoes against the linoleum as he retreats. She feels like she’s missing something – something hanging in the air between them, something left unsaid – and she gnaws on her lip trying to move her mind away from it. She intends to spend the day in a cocoon of blankets, curtains drawn, and –

She bumps the table as she crosses her legs, the pie tin tumbling to the ground with a loud clatter. Her bag makes the fall, too, and when she reaches to gather her things with a string of muttered curses, she sees it.

A little gift box wrapped carefully in shiny green paper. 

She opens it with shaking fingers, uncovering the Hess truck inside slowly.

When she stands up from the table, she knocks the pie tin to the ground again.

-/-

There’s a matching box on the little table next to Cecilia’s bed – a big red bow and a huge hangtag that reads  _From: Santa_  in very familiar ostentatious handwriting.

She runs down the hallway.

-/-

“Killian, wait!”

He’s halfway ducked into his beat up black Mustang when she comes tearing through the door, trying to pull her beanie on with one hand with the truck clutched in the other. He must have gone out during her first round of paperwork. She had no idea where he found it, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the apprehensive way he’s looking at her, like he’s not quite sure if he’s overstepped and –

She’s an idiot. A huge idiot.

The biggest one, actually.

“You bought me a truck,” she wheezes when she’s finally in front of him.

He frowns at her. “I did.”

She nods, a surge of confidence straightening her spine. “Do you have plans today?” When he just blinks at her, she rushes to continue. “I mean, did you want to, I don’t know, I don’t really have food in my apartment but we could – “

“Are you asking me out, Swan?”

She shrugs, a blush rising on her cheeks that only intensifies with the way he’s grinning at her. “I don’t know, I was just thinking maybe it’s time for some new holiday traditions?”

His laughter is warm pressed against her lips, his palm solid against the small of her back. He doesn’t pick her up and spin her, but it’s a near thing.

“About bloody time.”

-/-

He has gingerbread coffee creamer in his fridge and his eyes are an even darker blue when he first wakes up, pillow lines creased against his cheek.

And it feels really damn good not to hold back anymore.

“Merry Christmas, Killian,” she whispers into the space above his heart, his sheets pooled low around her hips and his Christmas tree casting light and shadows over his skin. He hums, thumbing at the crease of her elbow, his smile tucked in between her shoulder and neck.

“Happy Christmas, Emma.”

 


End file.
